


The Phantom of the Opera

by illegalmuppetfighting



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Crossover, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegalmuppetfighting/pseuds/illegalmuppetfighting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the protégée of the Opera Garnier, newly discovered Prime Domo with a voice that has been described as 'angelic'. Speaking of angelic...</p><p> </p><p>Based on the Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber, some dialogue taken from the lyrics but it IS NOT IN MUSICAL FORMAT </p><p>Is currently in 'beta'- I will continue if I receive feedback:)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom of the Opera

 

 

 

 

   The stage was pure, undiluted organized chaos, a wild arrangement of characters in half costume scattered about the stage.  Some peered absentmindedly over twice- and thrice-dog-eared scores, others gossiped viciously in pods of bright color, like birds.  Dancers stretched languidly in demi pointe and modest tunics (corsetless, in a way that would have been deemed scandalous not three years ago), tied at the waist off to one side, using the rail of the orchestra pit as a makeshift barre. The stage itself was magnificent, even lacking the ornaments and trappings of scenery that were to come, a true spectacle of architecture.

 

 

   Two men, reaching the end of middle age, sat halfway back in the enormity of the empty audience, curiously removed from the confusion.  Given their great seniority over most of the revelers, and their general displacement, they seemed quite a curious pair.  One, blessed with the deep laugh lines and salt-and-pepper hair that accompanied a joyous and prosperous life, had removed his topcoat and stood casually, hands leaning on the row of velvet seats in front of him, while his companion, a severe man still stiffly dressed in a finely cut suit of impeccable quality, with a brow predisposed to frowning and a gut bloated with one too many fine foods, sat pen in hand, marking a crisp and unruffled score.

                

 

   They were known as the Messrs. Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, who had recently acquired management of the Opera Garnier, the opera house they currently had so little control of.  They bickered back and forth lowly under the sound of conversation and song from the stage for some minutes before the besuited one stood with an air of aristocratic grace and importance.  His voice echoed over the heads of the dancers, bringing a sudden hush to everything it touched, as if all the air in the room had suddenly vanished.  

 

 

    Although this in itself is quite a common talent, seemingly naturally occurring in certain mothers and schoolteachers, the shock of his voice had not quite worn off on the perpetual residents of the Opera.

 

 

       “Myself and Mr. Lestrade would much prefer it if the dancers could stay out of the wings during practice?  Thank you.  Now, from the third act-“

 

 

   The light cadence of the piano interjected Mycroft’s voice, and the delicate sound broke the spell of stillness that permeated the theater as the stage became a silent commotion of chorus members scrambling for their spots.

 

 

   A man walked- or rather, strutted- out of the throng, possibly the only one who could claim full costume, chest swollen and step weighty with self-importance.  His chin decidedly upturned in the flawless portrait of someone who believes they are god’s gift to society.

 

 

  He took a self-affirmed position at center stage, straightening the lapels of his velvet waistcoat, which dripped lavishly with imitation gold cord. The pianist came to a soft interlude, indicating the conclusion of the intro, and the entirety of the room, now with the entire chorus in their proper positions, stood on the edge of a breath. The man opened his mouth to sing.

 

_“Think of me,_

_Think of me fondly,_

_When we’ve said goodbye_

_R-remember me_

_Once in a while_

_Please pr-romise me you’ll tr-ry_

_When you find_

_That once again you long_

_To take your hea-_ AH!”

 

 

   The scream of a young girl resonated round the stage like a gunshot, cutting off the singer’s lament (who had the perpetual habit of rolling his R’s dramatically while he sang) with a gasp, and causing him to whirl around, gold thread getting tangled together.

 

 

   Near the back of the stage, a small flock of chorus girls started talking, far above their previous murmurs, in tones heavy with mocking gossip and poorly camouflaged genuine terror.

 

 

      “A ghost-“

 

      “A phantom-“

 

      “The phantom of the opera!”

 

 

   The last statement rose quite considerably above the others, setting off a tidal wave of uncomfortable stirrings, mutterings both sarcastic and horrified from their surrounding co-workers. The background sound propagated and swelled until the Prime Uomo* was the picture of livid rage.

 

 

      “Good heavens, could you show a little courtesy!” Mycroft stood, shouting, silencing the developing sound with a piercing glare and a beseeching glance to the soloist, Lestrade right behind him, apologies on their breath.

 

 

       “Monsieur Anderson-please!” Lestrade pleaded.

 

 

   “These things do happen.” Mycroft nodded, gesturing to the chorus as if to highlight their inferiority, as if casually mentioning that sometimes a beloved pet would chew on the rug.

 

 

   Anderson huffed and turned up his nose.

 

 

      “Yes, ‘these things do happen’…well unless you stop these things happening, THIS thing-“an overdramatic gesture to his throat, obviously indicating his voice talents “-does NOT happen!”

 

 

  And with that vehement declaration, he spun once more on his heel, gold cord swaying humorously off his lank frame, and stalked off the stage, looking for the entire world like a very miffed rooster for all his red and gold.

 

 

      “Monsieur-don’t-!” Lestrade called out in futile protest once more.

 

 

   But the Prime was already gone; both the chorus had broken into a bustle of whispers amongst themselves inaudibly. Mycroft groaned, sat and slouched forward in his seat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes and pinching the furrow of his brow with his fingertips. Beside him, Lestrade sighed in resigned annoyance and picked up a crumpled leaf of paper, scrawling a note.

 

 

      “Third time this month…and no telling when he’ll be back! We cannot afford to put the performance off any longer, Mycroft…” he trailed into silence, starting dumbly at his papers, spinning the pen in his hand.

 

 

   A young, unassumingly pretty chorus girl, without the bedanglements of any costume piece, broke away from the rest of her colleagues, making for the front of the stage at a pace that could only be described as ‘frantic’.

 

 

      “Sherlock Holmes can sing it, sir!” She shouted in an unnecessarily loud tone, a bit out of breath.

 

 

  Mycroft’s head shot up at an alarming speed, Lestrade mirroring him. Only the younger man seemed to have his voice about him.

 

 

      “The chorus boy?” he asked, puzzled, ignorant of Mycroft’s sudden intense, unusually shaken gaze on him.

 

 

   From down by the orchestra pit, a voice floated over to the managers languidly, as sensual as the interchanges the dark-haired woman it belonged to use in her work. She too had separated from her colleagues and had come to lean lavishly over the chairs of the first row, her neckline dipping far too low to be proper.

 

 

   No one would ever mention it outright, however. She was a constant figure in the Opera, and had not transferred nor been fired in her time working there- however long that had been, anyone could venture a guess. She held the ethereal quality of one whose age no one can truly guess, yet she still danced the pas de duex with as much grace as any young woman.

 

  

   Say what you like about the scandalous state of her dresses, she always seemed to have enough knowledge of the secrets of your past to ruin you forever. And that sort of person is one that holds high respect. 

 

   “Take time to listen to him, monsieur’s,” She grinned slowly, persuasively, “he has been well taught."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *prime domo- a male prima donna


End file.
